Thanksgiving Dinner
by ObscureEnough
Summary: Tony thinks about a note that Gibbs gave him. Slash


**Disclaimer:** Don't own or claim rights to NCIS

_'The turkey isn't the only thing getting stuffed for Thanksgiving.'_

Tony surreptitiously adjusted himself, and slid the note back into his pocket. He was decidedly _not_ looking at Jethro, inot/i noticing the little smirk that told him the older man had seen him reading the note (_again_) and knew exactly what his problem was. Because if he did look at Jethro (duh: work hours, got to call him 'Gibbs' or 'Boss', nothing else) then he'd want to drag him into the elevator and kiss him senseless before dropping to his knees to suck him dry. And he seriously didn't want to do that. Well, he did, but _neither_ of their jobs were worth the consequences of that.

Tony sighed. It had to be love, frankly, on both sides. Otherwise, neither of them would be risking their jobs like this, especially given Gibbs own rules. Everyone had seen what happened when work relationships were complicated by romantic or sexual relationships, and he knew it was insane, but he was not giving this up. Jethro was his, and he was Jethro's, and that's all there was to it.

If only Thanksgiving holiday would damn well hurry up and get here. They would hurry home, put the turkey on to bake; all the trimmings were as ready as they could be to save unnecessary interruptions from the kitchen. Once things were under-way, he was going to drag Jethro upstairs, strip them down, pull out the good lube, and go to town on his hard-bodied older lover. He was going to kiss his way down Jethro's chest till he got to the treasure that was his magnificent cock, and take it into his mouth as far as he could before attempting to suck Jethro's brains out. But he wouldn't let him come, oh no. No, if he was going to be stuffed like Jethro promised, then he couldn't let him come straight away. No, it was going to be a _long_ night.

Maybe Jethro would pull out the cuffs – leather, with chamois lining – and cuff him to the bed. It was a good bed, sturdy frame, with convenient places to tie people down. He liked Jethro's bed _a lot_. Maybe he'd play with his body for a while, and – ooh – plugs; a nice, big plug to keep him open and needy while Jethro worked on other parts of Tony's body. One night, Jethro had kept on the edge of orgasm for _hours_, and when he'd finally been allowed to come he'd felt like he was exploding, and it was so intense it was both pleasure and pain, and he _so_ wanted that again. It was torture while it was happening, but it was so very worth it.

Maybe Jethro would pull out the chocolate sauce, and paint it on him. Then he would lick it off; somehow Jethro _always_ managed to paint it on Tony's most ticklish spots. Jethro swore it was a coincidence, that Tony was just generally ticklish, and that wasn't his fault, but Tony saw that little smirk and he knew the truth. Of course, Jethro would then lavish him with chocolate-flavoured kisses, which were amazingly even better than his normal kisses. Mmm… chocolate.

Tony shifted in his chair, almost in agony, and he had no one to blame but himself. Work was _not_ the place to fantasise about his lover! Knowing his luck, Ziva would start picking at him about his obvious discomfort any moment now: so unfair. And, look – she's opening her mouth while looking _directly_ at him.

"Right," Gibbs announced, "I don't know about you lot, but I think it's time to get out of here."

"Uh, sorry, Boss?" Tim asked, startled.

"It's Thanksgiving, Tim," Gibbs explained. "Go, take the afternoon off. We work damn hard, and we don't have a case at the moment, so just go. You too, Ziva, Tony: all of you."

Tony looked around at the others and shrugged. "Uh, thanks, Boss," he offered, and began to pack up his desk. He stuffed around a little, hoping the others would dash out before him, which they did. Just as well, since he was as hard as a rock.

"There a problem, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, standing over his desk, that damn smirk in place again.

Tony coughed to clear his suddenly-dry throat. "Uh, no, Boss. No problem."

Gibbs leaned forward to sight is fuller-than-usual crotch. "You sure about that, DiNozzo?"

"Well, um, nothing that can't be fixed once I get home," Tony offered, blushing. It was ridiculous: he could flirt like anything, anywhere else. But here, in the office and with his _boss_? He just gave up and imitated a tomato.

"'Cause if you needed a hand with anything," Gibbs smirked, "anything at all…"

"I'm fine, Boss," Tony assured Gibbs. "I'll just, uh, well…"

Gibbs leaned forward. "Just so long as you don't do anything about it until _I'm_ ready, okay, Tony?" he whispered.

Tony whimpered. Oh, he was stuffed.

Like Thanksgiving dinner.

Oh, life was _good_!


End file.
